Ere I was old?  Ah woful Ere,
Which tells me, Youth’s no longer here! 
O Youth! for years so many and sweet
’Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
I’ll think it but a fond conceit—­
It cannot be, that Thou art gone! 
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll’d:—­
And thou wert aye a masker bold! 
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that Thou art gone? 
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size: 
But springtide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! 
Life is but thought:  so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.

Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
But the tears of mournful eve! 
Where no hope is, life’s a warning
That only serves to make us grieve,
                    When we are old: 

That only serves to make us grieve
With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist. 
Yet hath outstay’d his welcome while,
And tells the jest without the smile.

1869 Edition.

* * * * *

WILLIAM COLLINS.

23. Written in the Year 1746.

How sleep the brave, who sink to rest
By all their country’s wishes bless’d! 
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallow’d mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod
Than Fancy’s feet have ever trod.

By fairy hands their knell is rung;
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim gray,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay;
And Freedom shall a while repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there.

1822 Edition.

* * * * *

WILLIAM COWPER.

24. To a Young Lady.

Sweet stream that winds through yonder glade,
Apt emblem of a virtuous maid—­
Silent and chaste she steals along,
Far from the world’s gay busy throng,
With gentle, yet prevailing, force,
Intent upon her destin’d course;
Graceful and useful all she does,
Blessing and blest where’er she goes,
Pure-bosom’d as that wat’ry glass,
And heav’n reflected in her face.

1813 Edition.

* * * * *

ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

25. A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea.

A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
  A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
  And bends the gallant mast;
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
  While, like the eagle free,
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
  Old England on the lee.

O for a soft and gentle wind! 
  I heard a fair one cry;
But give to me the snoring breeze,
  And white waves heaving high;
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
  The good ship tight and free—­
The world of waters is our home,
  And merry men are we.